The Beast

TWENTY-EIGHT

The Tomb was the Brotherhood’s sanctum sanctorum, a place where new members were inducted, and old members went after they died—and as such, it was protected from intruders through mechanisms both ancient and modern.

The sturdiest of these, after you breached the cave’s mouth, further traveled into the earth some distance and proceeded behind a nine-foot-high slab of granite, was a set of iron gates that nobody was going to get through even with an industrial blowtorch.

Unless, of course, you had the key to the lock.

As Rhage and his brothers came up to the fortification with Xcor on the gurney, Z did the honors with the unlocking and Rhage monitored the interior of the cave, his eyes searching through what was revealed by V’s glowing palm.

It was against protocol for anyone to enter the space who was not a Brother, but that was his point about beggars and choosers and all that shit. This was the safest, most isolated place to lock up a seriously wounded, treasonous motherfucker until such time as either he came to and was ready to be tortured, or the bastard kicked it and could be burned on the altar as a sacrifice worthy of all the carved names on the marble wall.

Creeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeak.

Besides, Rhage thought as he began pulling the gurney ahead again, Xcor wasn’t going any farther than the ante-chamber.

At least, not while he was still breathing.

Now there was no need for V’s portable glow light. Iron-handled torches came alive with a nod from the brother and shadows started to chase one another over the stone floor and up the rows and rows of shelves, the flickering light darting in and about the countless jars, both those which were centuries old and those that had come from Amazon.com.

It was a display of the Brotherhood’s triumphs over the Lessening Society, a collection of souvenirs from kills in the Old World and the New.

In that way, it was appropriate to bring Xcor here.

He was yet another spoil of war.

“This is far enough,” Vishous announced.

Rhage stopped and locked the wheels with their foot brake as V shifted a massive duffel bag off his shoulder.

“This battery pack is only going to last ten hours,” the brother said.

“Won’t be a problem.” As Lassiter spoke, his entire body lit up from the inside out, the energy replacing the contours of his flesh. “I can recharge it.”

“You’re sure you’re good alone here during the day?” V demanded.

“I can always step out into the sunlight and top myself off. And before you bitch that that dead fish on the table will be momentarily left unattended, I have ways of keeping track of him.”

V shook his head. “I’m surprised you’re willing to do this. No Time Warner.”

“That’s what they make phones for.”

“I can almost respect you.”

“Don’t get emotional on me, Vishous. I left the Kleenex at home. Besides, I have the night off now that the hot potato is safely here. Plenty of time to get busy with the whacker.”

“Okay, that sounds dirty,” someone said.

“No one but his left hand would have him, are you kidding me?” came a counter.

“Hey, Lass, when was the last time you were out on a date?” somebody else drawled. “Was it before the Punic Wars, or right after?”

“And how much did you have to pay her?”

Lassiter went silent, his strangely white eyes growing distant. But then he smiled. “Whatever. My standards are too high for you bunch of assholes.”

As a fresh round of joking flared up, nobody actually relaxed. It was as if Xcor were a bomb with an unknown detonator and a debatable length of time before the boom party started.

“Z and I are on first shift,” Phury cut in. “And you guys have work to do downtown.”

“Call us and we’re back here in a fucking instant.” V punched himself in the chest. “Especially if he wakes up.”

On that note, Rhage stared down at that ugly-ass face, and imagined those lids lifting. Was the Bastard awake in there? And not as in jump-out-and-attack, but as in conscious in the midst of the coma.

Did the SOB know what kind of trouble he was in? Or was the lack of consciousness the last bit of mercy his fate was ever going to give him?

Not my problem, Rhage thought as he took one last look around, seeking out the jars he had brought here and placed on the shelves, the representations of his own kills. So many. He had been at this war for such a long time—so long that he remembered back when Wrath refused to lead, and the only time the Brotherhood came to this mountain was to deliver these containers to the shelves.

So much had changed, he thought.

Now, not only were they all living in Darius’s fancy mansion, but they had new members of the Brotherhood. John Matthew and Blay as soldiers. A medical staff and great facilities. Everyone under the same roof—

“—sides, that way I can polish my nails.”

Rhage shook himself back into focus as Lassiter’s voice registered. “Wait, what?”

“JK.” The angel laughed. “I could tell we’d lost you. Dreaming of what you’re going to have at Last Meal? I know I am. Three guesses, and the first two that don’t have meat in them don’t count.”

“You’re insane,” Rhage said. “But I like that in a friend.”

Lassiter put his arm around Rhage’s shoulders and led him to the gate. “You have such good taste. Have I mentioned that lately?”

After everyone but Z and Phury filed out, Vishous closed the bars and relocked everything. Then they all stood still for a moment. The fine steel mesh that was wrapped around the barrier and soldered into place would prevent Phury and Z from getting free. And wasn’t that a ball shriveler.

If something went wrong in there, they couldn’t get out.

But Rhage told himself, as probably the rest of his brothers were, that there was no way Xcor was going to be anything other than an inanimate object for the foreseeable future—and even if he did come around, he’d be too weak to go on the offensive.

Still, Rhage didn’t like this.

But that was the nature of war. It put you in places you hated.

As a subtle vibration went off in Rhage’s pocket, he frowned and took out his phone. When he saw who it was, he accepted the call.

“Mary? Everything okay?”

There was static because the reception sucked so he jogged out to the mouth of the cave. As he stepped out into fresh, cold night air, he could hear just fine—and as his mate talked for a little bit, he made a series of uh-huhs and nodded even though she couldn’t see him. Then he ended the connection and looked at his brothers, all of whom were clustered around him like they were wondering if something was wrong.

“Gentlemen, I need to help Mary for a little while. Meet you downtown?”

V nodded. “You take care of what you need to. Check in when you’re ready to enter the field and I’ll give you a status report and an assignment.”

“Roger that,” Rhage said, before he closed his eyes and began to concentrate.

Talk about not knowing where you were going to end up.

As he dematerialized, he never would have expected to be heading where he was going. But he was not about to let his shellan down.

Now or ever.

A simple little gathering for twelve, Assail thought as he was shown into the lemon yellow drawing room he’d enjoyed so much the evening before.

As his name was announced by the same uniformed butler who’d welcomed him then, he stepped forward such that his two cousins could likewise be introduced to the other nine vampires in the parlor. Or, more accurately, the eight females and one male.

Who was not their hostess’s mate.

No, the other entity with a cock and balls was not old, infirmed, or unknown. In fact, surprise, surprise, it was Throe, the handsome, disgraced former aristocrat who had previously been a member of the Band of Bastards, but who was now, evidently, making some sort of a return into the glymera’s prejudicial velvet fold.

In a perfectly fitted tuxedo, as it were. One that was every bit as expensive as Assail’s own.

Introductions over with, Naasha made her way across the room, her black satin gown like water flowing over her body at night.

“Darling,” she said to him, holding her pale hands out. On her fingers, diamonds winked and glittered with as much charm and lack of warmth as their owner. “You are late. We have been waiting.”

As she curtsied, he bowed.

“How fare thee.” Even though he did not care. “You are looking well enough.”

Her brows twitched at the almost-there compliment. “Just as you were almost timely.”

Assail deliberately stroked the back of the sofa. “These are my cousins, Ehric and Evale. Perhaps you will introduce us to your other guests?”

Naasha’s eyes flared as he penetrated the gap between cushions with his forefinger. “Ah, yes. Indeed. These are my dearest friends.”

The females came forward one by one, and they were a predictable lot, preened and prettied in gowns that had been constructed precisely for their bodies and jewels that had been purchased or passed down to adorn the precious flesh of noble daughters. Two blondes. Another black-haired one. Three with streaked brown locks. And one with thick white hair.

To him, they were simply variations on a theme he had been bored with a hundred years before—and it was entirely possible that, while he had been over in the Old Country, he had mated with some of their ancestors or even closer relations.

“And this is”—Naasha swept her hand toward the far corner—“my special friend, Throe.”

Assail smiled at the male and sauntered over. As he offered his palm, he kept his voice low. “Change of company. From Bastards to pedigrees. Not much of an improvement, I fear.”

Throe’s eyes were sharp as daggers. “A return to my roots.”

“Is it truly possible to come back after a defection? As significant as yours was, at any rate.”

“My bloodline never changed.”

“But your character is a bit wanting, it is not.”

Throe leaned in. “This from a drug dealer?”

“Businessman. And what do they call males like you? Gigolos? Or mayhap the term ‘whore’ is sufficient.”

“And why do you think you’re here? Certainly not for the pleasure of your social company.”

“Unlike yourself, I do not need to sing for my supper, I can buy it myself.”

Naasha spoke up, her voice filling the parlor. “Shall we adjourn for our meal?”

As the butler eased open a pair of double doors to reveal a dining table as resplendent as any set by royalty, human or otherwise, Naasha linked her arm into Assail’s.

In a whisper, she said, “We shall be having dessert down below. In my playroom.”

Ordinarily, he would have been unimpressed by such a blatant, I’m-a-naughty-girl come-on and would have commented appropriately. But he had other priorities.

Had Throe defected from the Bastards? Was he infiltrating the glymera through an available opening—or three—with an eye toward engineering ambitions against the crown?

Assail was most certainly going to find out.

“I look forward to whatever will be served,” he murmured, patting her hand.

Even if the sweets to be consumed were, temporarily, him and his cousins.

After all, orgasms were as good a currency as any . . . and he was quite certain that Naasha and her “dearest friends” were free for the purchasing in that regard.